Sometimes we hear it down here in the valley, usually on a dark, still night. We might be sitting on the front porch, fanning away mosquitoes when we hear it from afar: A-whoo-whoo-whoo! That mournful whistle coming through the pines.

That's when we hush our talk, put out or cigarettes and pipes, bow our heads. It's Old Black #0, chugging down the mountainside, coming to take someone away.

Maybe one of us.

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